Tie Down the Dying
by FrostedFox816
Summary: A string of kidnappings plagues Los Angeles, and Fred is among the missing. Amidst the terror that the team is experiencing, they must work to find her. But nothing good comes without sacrifice.
1. That Good Life

_The train chugs along the dusty tracks. The landscape barren, save for a few dead and pointed trees; bleached almost white from the sun, which does not look as strong as it is. He looks out the window. A long rope is trailing beside the tracks; so close that he should be worrying about derailment, but the fact passes him without a second thought._

* * *

><p>"He understands me, Lorne! He is smarter than anyone gives him credit for, and he's <em>funny<em>. No one can see that he's funny!" Fred's face spreads into the sort of smile that is almost guilty; so unintentional she doesn't notice how deeply happy she looks. Lorne smiles back, he's never been one to second guess happiness.

"Then tell him that, Freddles! Stop telling me," but his tone is anything but demanding. A pause in the conversation occurs as she considers this. "Oh, fine. Tell me more," he relents, grinning back at her. Her eyes light up as she describes the events of the latest demon-hunting outing, describing Wesley's every heroic move in such vivid detail that Lorne is sure she's making some of it up.

* * *

><p>Wesley is thinking about Fred. This is standard procedure for any moment he finds himself alone. If he happens to delve into a memory while among others-fabricated or otherwise-he finds himself grinning, and grinning lead to questions.<p>

This particular instance is unlike the current standard, in fact, it is quite the opposite. Angel stands across the room from Wesley, his arms folded across his chest, his stance wide-non threatening, only Angel can pull this off. Wesley sighs.

"What would you like?"

"You and Fred?"

Wesley pauses. Angel continues.

"Spike said something about it earlier and I just," his voice becomes unsure, the way it often does when he begins to discuss something personal. Fred calls it his 'Cordelia-voice.' "I was just curious," he finishes. Wesley sighs again before responding.

"Curious. Yes, well. So am I."

He returns to whatever book was on his desk, none of the information being absorbed. He notices when Angel leaves the room, and suddenly realizes that the book on his desk is blank.

* * *

><p>Lorne offers his arm to Fred as they depart the cafe, it's raining-light and misty-but puddles have formed, and Fred is prone to slipping. Despite the hood that Lorne wears-a yellow plastic that is anything but discrete-Fred feels like a normal girl. She is happy, elated even. She feels as if nothing could dampen her mood, but, as is often the case with thoughts of such certainty, she sneezes.<p>

"Bless you, Buttercup," Lorne says with cadence. "Don't you go getting a cold now."

"Oh, a cold won't bring me down," she replies. "Not anytime soon."

* * *

><p>That night a slightly confused Angel sat alone in his suite, just as Wesley was pacing his office, deep in thought. Lorne was singing to himself in the shower-a fast paced jumble of languages- and Fred was combing her hair, smiling at her reflection in the mirror.<p>

Just as all of this was occurring, Fred's window shatters with a crash.


	2. Count my Losses

_He approaches the window again, this time finding himself curious with the rope. Like a snake, it slithers beside the tracks, never interfering with the train, but constantly there. He follows it with his eyes, forward. A small dot appears on the horizon, directly over the tracks. This dot creates a sense of unexplained anxiety; impossible to ignore or place, but when he looks away from the window, the feeling is gone. He finds himself again lulled by the noise of the train making its way across the world._

* * *

><p>Panic has broken out at Wolfram &amp; Hart. The law firm buzzes with activity, phones ringing off the hook as the more informed people of Los Angeles call in the disappearance of their loved ones. Some with more information than others-notes, rooms in disarray, a fingerprint left on a windowsill-the only thing each case has in common is the gender and age of the victims.<p>

"We assume the perpetrator-or perpetrators-are male. We're seeing a pattern that indicates clumsiness, and yet the police are finding no leads, even the fingerprints show nothing," Angel explains to his crew. "Gunn, you're on book duty until we have anything, then you head the external investigation crew. Wes, you take phone calls, your notes are the most legible. Lorne is interviewing those who have come to the office, and I'll see what we can find through through the Wolfram & Hart connections. And can anybody phone Fred? We're going to need her in the lab today," He looks at the two men in front of him, feeling the unspoken and tense knowledge that Fred fits the averaged description of each victim perfectly.

"I'll phone her now," Wesley breaks the silent tension before heading out of the glass office. Gunn follows before turning off towards the library. Angel sits at his desk, the fleeting moment of fear dissipating from his mind.

* * *

><p><em>It becomes clear that the approaching shape is bound in some way to the railroad tracks. The rope ends around the clouded object, no longer following the tracks. The obstacle is forming a shape, though the sudden fog doesn't help in determining what it is. Nothing looks the same in black and white. A chill runs through the train; the machine shuddering as if it had a spine. The wind blows the fog in swirls around the track and the object is revealed for a brief moment as a person. The train rapidly approaches.<em>

* * *

><p>"She's not picking up her phone," Wesley's voice is even, calm. Unnatural.<p>

"Try again," Angel has less control of his emotions.

"Don't you think I have?" He becomes a shade angry, but still cool. Collected.

"Have you been to her apartment?" Gunn sounds more frantic than either of them.

"Yes," Wesley's voice patronizes the other man, because that's who Gunn has always been, the other man in Fred's life. Lorne is slumped in a chair, responding only with infinitesimal shakes of his head. Spike sits in the chair opposite him, a passive look on his face.

Save for Spike, everyone in the room acknowledges the other's emotional attachment to Fred. Spike doesn't play their game of Who-Loves-Fred-The-Most because he has known her for the shortest amount of time. This makes him believe that he is, as always, the champion of another's game.

It becomes increasingly evident that Fred is among the many victims whose family members and friends are outside of the office, lining the halls of the building, crying their accounts to unknowing employees. Nobody knows where the missing people are except those who are lost in their midst.


	3. Down the Road From Your House

The phone rings at an impossible moment, luckily for Spike, he belongs in the world of the impossible. Angel had ordered Wesley and Gunn to their respective apartments, and had himself retired to his suite, no doubt dwelling over what he could not change.

The phone rings at an impossible moment, and Spike is the only one left to receive it. He contemplates ignoring the incessant clamor, but relents at the last moment.

The phone rings at an impossible moment, the voice on the other end is hushed in a weak whisper, the whisper of a girl. The voice has Spike's attention.

"Fred, Love? 'That you?"

The reply is heavy breathing followed by the whispering voice.

"Old...abandoned... station. Train station. Abandoned. There are... too many...too many people here. I can't... Angel, I can't breathe, I can't...see. I can't save them."

"Hold on. Hold on Fred, we'll find you. Angel and Wes and Gunn and I. We'll find you. Can you tell me anything else?"

There's another long stretch of almost dead air, breathing, heavy breathing.

"Wesley? Is Wesley there? Here it's too dark. Pylea dark. The darkness of Hell, but I'm in California. Under a station. Hell-help. Help these people." The phone cuts off. Spike has no idea if it was bad reception or if it had been hung up.

* * *

><p><em>He makes his way through the train to the front, intending to warn the conductor-or anybody-of the person on the train tracks. Upon arriving at the end of the train, he realizes that he has not seen a single person in any compartment. Everyone has gone missing. It's a conscience thought, he realizes, he hasn't had one of those in a while. Like the rest of the train, the front car is completely empty, but a brake stands upright in the middle of the car. He is aware of the absurdity of the brake, it is large and black. It looks heavy. He reaches out to touch it, to pull it, to stop the train from crashing into the person on the tracks, but he cannot reach it. His fingers just brush the polished top.<em>

* * *

><p>It feels good to be in charge for once. Everyone is looking at Spike with their complete attention. He could say anything right now and they would have to listen. The whole lot of them are tuned right in. He refrains. Spike could say that the thought to mess with Angel never passed through his mind, but that wouldn't be quite true.<p>

No, the thought of messing with the man he's known for centuries is constant within Spike. Even a situation like this doesn't turn that instinct off. Though it does override the actual action part of the thought. Fred's safety is in the forefront of Spike's mind. He is going to do anything to get her back, even tolerate the group of morons in front of him.

So Spike gets right down to it and describes the phone call in perfect-albeit a bit exclusive-detail. He watches as the rest of the crew experiences what he felt upon hearing it. He feels that he had it worse, having to listen to her voice-wavering, weak, alone- Spike spares those details. They don't even know the favor he is doing them.

Wesley recognizes the station before he even sees it. He knows it well; it is, after all, only a few blocks from his house. The trains that crawled along the iron lattice used to keep him up each night, before he became accustomed to the noise. He doubts he could sleep without it now.

The recognition is uncomfortable. He didn't sleep last night, his thoughts were with Fred-wherever she was-and it turns out she was right under his nose. This feels intentional. Coincidences don't happen in Wesley's world. Not like this.

Wolfram & Hart is able to track the phone's location to this particular station, and the team is on their way, except 'on the way' can't be accurate. They are in such a rush to get there that the figure of speech is far too mundane to properly fit. Upon encountering this thought, Wesley hates himself. He feels guilty and sick and the last thing that anyone needs is for him to be overanalyzing such idiotic details.

Arriving at the station yields circumstances beyond what anyone had expected, or could have imagined.

"No," Angel looks frantically around for something living. "No," he repeats. "No, no, no," it appears to be the only word he can utter.

Wesley, on the other hand, is stunned into silence.


	4. Die Some Every Day

The smell of death. Angelus loved it, Angel can't seem to feel anything properly for it. It's bittersweet, what might be described as sickeningly sweet. It's disgusting and beautiful at the same time. When laced with blood, the scent is intoxicating. Spike tenses as soon as it hits him. Wesley, in his human state, doesn't notice the smell.

Humans trust their eyes.

Dogs follow their sense of smell.

Vampires use everything.

In the abandoned train station, it wouldn't matter your species. The massacre attacks on all fronts.

At least a dozen dead bodies lay in rows, organized. Gunn moves to throw up over the ledge of the platform, Wesley turns away. Spike walks the lines of cadavers, checking for Fred. Angel watches his team, unsure of who to help, but before Angel can make any move-any sound, declaration or gesture-Spike calls out.

"She's not here."

Wesley falls to his knees. Gunn remains bent over the railing, still nauseated with the fear. Angel puts his head in his hands.

It takes a few moments still for anyone to notice that these bodies have been dead for weeks, months, probably dug out of recent graves. It takes them longer to notice puncture marks on the arms of each cadaver, and the syringes littering the station.

* * *

><p><em>Panic strikes him. The shape on the tracks becomes familiar, a girl he knows. A girl he loved. He thought he loved her, at one point. She had saved him from Hell, or he had saved her... the memory of it isn't clear. He is distracted by the recognition and momentarily forgets the brake. The train. The tracks. Everything falls away and he forgets what the danger is.<em>

* * *

><p>"She had sneezed. Once. She told me it wouldn't get her down. We were out in the rain and in our last moment she was the ray of sunlight that she always is. Nothing but positive," Lorne's voice breaks. "How did we lose her?"<p>

It's meant to cheer them up, this story. It's meant to help them find their way, their purpose, but it only reminds them of what they've lost. Lorne wasn't there at the station. He hasn't pieced all of the evidence together. The cadavers were being experimented on before being purposefully arranged to be found by the team. The kidnappers wanted new test subjects, live ones.

This would be a hell of a lot easier if their resident genius was with them. Working away with the chemicals found in the syringes in her lab. They needed Fred.

Wesley berates himself for even thinking of her as a resource. She is lost, she is scared, she is alone and possibly in pain. Lorne is still speaking of Fred, and Gunn abruptly stands up.

"I can't do this anymore," Gunn's words take a moment to register throughout the room. "We have nothing to go on. I'm no help here, I can't help you find her. I doubt if anyone can. I can't sit here and wish that she would show up or call or whatever it is you guys are waiting for. I just can't do it anymore."

There is silence as Gunn leaves the room. Wesley remembers sitting exactly where he is now, and hating Gunn for meaning something to Fred, while he sat waiting for her to notice him. Fred and Wesley were friends, best friends. Gunn got to be her lover. Wesley doesn't know what to feel, so many emotions course through him. He finds himself on the precipice of hopelessness. Gunn's emotions spreading like a contagion throughout the room.

Wesley wonders if they will ever find Fred, he wonders if he'd feel it if she were dead.

* * *

><p><em>His head is a mess. He finds himself caught between the soft feeling of sleepiness, carelessness; and the sheer terror of the realization that there's a girl tied to the train tracks, and the train is moving continuously onwards. Throughout the interplay of emotions is a haunting melody. Lyrics-but not lyrics-are in his ear, singing sweetly.<em>

_You can stop the train...You can stop the train...Yeah, you can, you can. You can stop the train... Just... pull the brake. Just pull the brake._


	5. Just Pull the Brake

The warnings have been innumerous, Wesley has watched as the senior partners have manipulated and destroyed everything that comes into contact with them. He wonders if that is not, in fact, their purpose.

This is his low point. He is alone, unsure of what to do. He needs Fred because he loves her. He needs Fred because without her he doesn't have a purpose.

Gunn is gone. Nobody can find him. Angel and Lorne have left to search the streets. Wesley sits alone.

It was an hour ago that Wesley realized the one resource they haven't yet used. He knows why it has not been spoken of. Surely someone else had thought of it, someone with judgement less clouded.

The conduit to the senior partners is practically screaming for him now. He can hear it in his every thought. He convinces himself that he has no choice, without Fred he can't do anything. He can't continue. This is a preemptive strike, this is self-defense.

* * *

><p><em>The train jolts from beneath him. He falls to the side, his leg slamming against a hard seat, he braces himself for the jolt of pain that accompanies such injuries. It doesn't come. He feels nothing. He reaches again for the brake. The girl is so close now, he can see that she is looking at the sky. He wonders if she is bound in such a way so that she cannot turn her head, but realizes that she is looking up in fear. She doesn't want to face her murderer. He turns his head away as well, focusing all his energy on the brake. He can only hope that the girl too cannot feel pain. Is she trapped in this nightmare as well?<em>

* * *

><p>Angel scans the streets of L.A., wondering if Gunn was correct in his assessment of the situation; was Fred really beyond saving? It's been days now, and the scene at the station was not promising. At the same time Angel assures himself that he could never give up on her, not Fred. That's the girl who looked up to him. Who loved him despite everything. That was what she did, she persevered.<p>

He was beginning to think of her in the past tense.

He owes it to her to continue until he knows something definite, he finds himself petrified about what that information might be.

* * *

><p>The champion rises to his feat, unstoppable. The images dance before him. Women that he loved. It's impossible to destroy them, the images. It's impossible to halt them or to make them leave him alone. These women are gone now. Spike watches them move through his mind, slipping from his memory and into his vision. Fred appears. She always shows up near the end. She is laughing, it's such a happy sound. Spike winces. She is happy, but she always shows up right before the end.<p>

At the end, the monster joins the visions and kills them all. The only fabricated moment made out of perfectly clear memories. Spike is the monster in the vision, not the monster in reality, not anymore. Spike is the champion, and he will kill whoever placed Fred into his visions. Whoever has her has an appointment with a real monster.

* * *

><p>"What do you want?" Wesley flinches as the conduit appears to him as Gunn. This is the most conflicting image that could have been chosen, Wesley knows it was done on purpose.<p>

"I want to know where Fred is."

"You know that we do not extend favors for nothing. What are you willing to trade for this information?"

"Anything, I'll give anything," and he means it with his entire being.

"There is ... one thing we have in mind, something we would like from you," the fact that the words are coming from Gunn, through that voice-snide and cold-causes Wesley comforting pain. Conflicted.

"I said I'd do anything."

"We would like your dreams."

"My sleep? Like Lorne's operation?"

"We mean what we say, we want your dreams. You won't be able to dream, ever, but you can have the location of your human. Dreams have been studied to a great extent, unaiding in survival instincts and yet experienced by humanity. We have been called on to continue some of this research. Do we have a deal?"

* * *

><p><em>The train lurches again, this time forcing his hand onto the brake. He realizes what has happened and pulls the cold metal with everything that he is. He feels it slide forward. Slowly, painfully, it pulls forward. <em>

_But Wesley has run out of time, and the girl, Fred, is so close he can see the tears streaking her face, shining in the dying light. He remembers who she is, he remembers everything. But it's too late, just before the train makes contact, everything goes black. The dream has been stolen._


	6. Miles of Rope to Burn

For evil beings that only deal in unfair and impossible trade-offs, the Senior Partners are really quite gracious. Instead of giving Wesley an address; they transported him only minutes away from an underground compartment, medical, he thinks.

It is in the middle of nowhere.

Wesley is so close, and yet the loss of his dreams has left him disoriented. Past spoken words pass through his memory; that dreams are nothing to survival instincts, but everything is something, everything has its purpose and everything has its consequences. Dreams are orientation, they are a feeling, deep within, that leads one to the truth.

At least Wesley had the images that were implanted in his brain, and the revolver that had travelled with him.

* * *

><p>The experience as an entity of energy has caused Spike to see the world in a different light, or rather, to feel it. He feels Wesley leave the building-disintegrating, essentially- and he puts together everything that he knows.<p>

Spike knows that the senior partners have helped Team Angel in the past, he knows that they always demand something in return, and he knows that Wesley would sacrifice everything for Fred. Spike thinks that he too would give up all that he had to save the girl, but he wasn't quick enough, which-perhaps-says something about his motivations. He doesn't think on that too long.

What he is able to deduce is that Wesley has made some effort to save Fred, and that he should probably be telling Angel what has happened. The lazy part of him dictates that this situation falls under the law of 'what's done is done', so Spike goes about his day, which consists of slumping in Angel's fancy office chair and drinking scotch.

* * *

><p>The compartment smells stale, the air is musky and the walls are a light yellow. Everything is off-putting. Wesley feels sick. He continues down long hallways until the air becomes thick. As he continues, a chemical smell fills the air. Wesley figures he must be on the right path.<p>

The sound of footsteps; approaching, growing louder. Wesley ducks behind a corner, feeling some of his past action-filled life return. He slows his breathing nostalgically and smiles at the familiar sensation. This is his life, this is what he was meant to do. The footsteps past, he looks out and can see the two men. Snippets of conversation float by.

"That one put up quite a fight, she thinks she's some kind of superhero. Couldn't even give her the injection."

"You need a hand getting her to stay still?"

"Nah," the first man replies. "We just have to wear her down."

Wesley takes off in the direction they came from, finding a door unlocked. The fact that the building was in the middle of the dessert gave the guards confidence that no one would find them, or maybe they're just unintelligent.

Going down the stairs beyond the door, Wesley picks up on the presence of others. Many others. What he sees is something different from what he feels. There are people here, but they're empty. Almost lifeless, huddled in corners of the large, dark room. He hears a gasp as the women pick up on his presence. He realizes that many of them are afraid of him, thinking he is one of their captors, no doubt. One pair of eyes is unafraid. He recognizes the girl as Fred, though she doesn't look like Fred.

No, that isn't it, she doesn't look like the Fred he has come to know. She looks like the girl he first met in an alternate dimension. She looks tortured and ragged. She was always a survivor, but Wesley can't imagine how she did it. Not twice. How she viewed the world, she must see a vastly different place than he does.

Her eyes are bright, not just because she recognizes him, but because she has resisted. He realizes that she was the girl that the men had been talking about. All of these other girls look sick. They have been injected. Wesley would get them all to Wolfram and Hart, if anyone has the cure, its the law firm.

He makes plans to create a diversion large enough to give him time to get everyone out. Wesley takes out his revolver and holds it in his hands. He explains his plan before heading upstairs, fully aware that he is risking it all. The reward-Fred's safety-is worth it.


	7. Dust Me Off

Spike awakens with a start. He has been dreaming of Fred again. He is in an arm chair in Angel's office. He drags his hand across his face and sighs.

"Nice dream?" Spike jumps a bit, no one else could sneak up on him but Angel.

"Actually, yeah," Spike grins. "Fred was in it."

Angel grows uncomfortable before Spike's eyes. Mission accomplished. Spike stands up, brushes himself off.

"What are you doing here so early?"

"Unlike some people, I've found sleep elusive of late," Angel sits down in his chair. "And this is my office."

"Have you heard anything from book-man?" Despite the implications, Spike is serious.

"No," a simple reply.

"Would you tell me if you had?"

"If it was good news, I would tell everybody. Bad and you would see it all over my face," Angel falters and sighs. "Now get out of my office, Spike."

* * *

><p>With a bang, the plan is in action. Wesley watches as the men-six of them-come running towards him. He brandishes the revolver above his head. Everything is coming together now.<p>

Fred leads the others, there are maybe five, but it was too dark to count in that basement. She runs with them, Wesley can see it in his mind's eye. It's tragic and beautiful, it is freedom, at last.

A shot rings out, Wesley jumps back, thinking it was him. It takes a moment to register the shriek, he has no way of knowing if it was Fred or someone else, but someone has been shot._ Bang. Bang. Bang._ It isn't Wesley doing the shooting. One man is armed, and worse, has discovered the escape taking place. Wesley takes off towards the sound of the gun. Shooting his own off at the enemy.

* * *

><p>Angel won't admit it to anyone, but he has been dreaming of Fred as well. Not in the way he assumes Spike has been, but in a way that causes him pain. She is always so beautiful, smiling at him as he departs somewhere in a train. She wears a dress belonging in his childhood, classic. She is waving goodbye. It's not that he can't sleep, it's that he is afraid to.<p>

There is no one who doesn't feel something for Winifred Burkle. Without knowing it, these idiots who have taken her have torn this group apart.

* * *

><p>He finds the group of escapees behind a small building. One body is on the ground, dead. Fred is holding her hands to her side, sobbing quietly. Wesley runs to her, he puts his hands on her face, his eyes darting as he makes sure she is okay. She is not. He looks down at the blood pooling at her fingers. Her dress is muddy and red, she is losing blood. She swallows back and looks up at him.<p>

"I'm okay," she whispers.

"Yes," as if she was asking a question. "Yes."

He supports her and gestures to the remaining survivors to follow him, one of them bends down and closes the eyes of the dead girl on the ground. Wesley looks only ahead, bodies litter the grounds behind him.

* * *

><p>Gunn is beyond drunk. He is lifeless, or weightless. He can't remember which. No, he is not weightless. He has a lot to handle, a lot is pressing weighing him down, pulling him under. He can see Fred dancing in his dreams. She is beautiful until she turns around and he can see her face, bloody and swollen. She points at him.<p>

"You did this."

"No," Gunn shakes his head. "You have to believe me, I didn't. I wouldn't," but her hand is unwavering. Accusatory.

When Gunn is awake, the dreams continue to haunt him. When he is drunk, they fade from vivid to fuzzy, the ever changing quality bringing him his only escape.

* * *

><p>They make it out with only one loss, she had collapsed in the heat; gone. There are three people, not counting Fred and himself. Wesley doesn't know how they will continue back. He has no idea where they are. None of the survivors can continue walking in the heat for long, but Wesley directs everyone into moving as far as they can. They have to get away from the place. Wesley himself cannot leave.<p>

He knows that many of the captors are now dead, but he won't risk any more innocent lives. He feels compelled to return to the compound. The rage inside of him-left over from the dynamic mixture of fear and relief-will not go away if not attended to.

Wesley moves quickly back towards the gate, ignoring every instinct that tells him to move in the opposite direction, to stay with the wounded. The rage drives him forward.

Sure enough, when Wesley is back inside, two men are consulting each other. One is holding his arm, the sleeve drenched in blood. Wesley raises his gun and takes that man down. The other, the last one left, takes a step back and looks around, his eyes locking on Wesley.

"You thought you were going to make it out alive?" Wesley's voice is cold.

"Did you?" The other man raises his own firearm into view, and points it directly at Wesley.

"Do you know who you're dealing with? Do you know who you kidnapped?"

"Women, yes. We were hired to test a drug on 'em," Wesley registers this.

"Hired by who?"

"Wolfram & Hart, big city law fir-" Wesley shoots the man in the head before he can finish, he continues to shoot him until the gun clicks empty, and then he turns to leave the compound forever. To go back to Fred.

Fred whimpers and falls limp as soon as he has her, still in Wesley's arms. He walks with her, leading the rest of the survivors. Moments or hours later there is the sound of a train in the distance. Humanity. Wesley makes his way towards it, finding the train track not far from where they stand. The sun blazes on, Wesley waits. The train approaches.

* * *

><p>"Where are they?" Spike's voice gives away all of his anxiety.<p>

"On their way, some conductor notified police after seeing five injured people on the side of the tracks, they'll be here soon."

Spike freezes, Angel watches him. A moment passes.

"Injured?"

"The conductor thought one women was dead. She was in the arms of a man fitting Wesley's description."

"Bloody hell," Spike brings his hands to his head. "Have you heard from Gunn?"

"Lorne traced him, had to take him back to his apartment. He was trashed."

"Thought as much."

Another silent moment passes before the doors burst open, Wesley has Fred in his arms, they are both covered in dirt and blood.


	8. Some Relief

Spike is with them immediately. He takes Fred from Wesley, allowing the other man to collapse onto the floor. Spike looks into Fred's eyes, closed but flickering. As if she is trapped in a nightmare. Angel goes to Wesley and assists him to his feet.

"The others?" Angel asks.

"The hospital," Wesley stammers out. "They were being injected."

"And Fred?"

"Too strong, but they shot her. I brought her here. Couldn't leave her in a hospital alone."

Angel nods his understanding before motioning for Spike to take her to the medical wing.

Fred's hair falls down in a cascade over Spike's arm, he continues to look at her face as he moves, the flickering eyelids entrance him. He places her delicately onto a cot. Angel follows with Wesley, helping him sit down on a chair.

"How did you do it?" Angel looked at Wesley.

"I saw the senior partners."

"You... What did they do?"

"Gave me an offer," Wesley speaks. "My dreams for her location."

"Your _dreams_?" Spike speaks up from the corner, where he leans against the wall.

"Yes," Wesley looks up at Angel. "I know there will be repercussions here, I do. I just know it will have been worth it," he looks over at Fred. "Speaking of repercussions, there was a man there, at the end. He said it was Wolfram & Hart that was testing the drug."

"Is this surprising? There's all kinds of evil still in this building, we've been trying to filter it out for awhile, you know this Wes," Angel replies.

"Doing it in the name of the firm?" Wesley's voice becomes angry.

"It'll be traceable this way. Wesley, if they're here, I _will_ find these guys. I want them gone as much as you do."

"You weren't there..." Wesley mumbles. Angel pretends not to hear.

Spike hasn't taken his eyes off of Fred since he had put her in the medical cot. He still watches her as if she is a dream. After all, that's the only way he has known her in this past week. Every night in a dream. She never looked as sickly as this, but she was never so real, so soft.

Angel watches everyone in the room, he watches Wesley dote solemnly. He watches Spike stare. _Glass half empty_. Angel is realizing what feels off when the door slowly squeals open. Lorne and Gunn stand on the other side, Gunn's arm around Lorne's shoulder, deeply hungover.

Gunn breaks away just then and stumbles towards the bed, gripping the plastic end and staring at the sleeping girl residing behind it. Lorne brings his hand to his mouth before kneeling beside the bed. He strokes Fred's cheek gently.

It's a touching scene, one that remains frozen for some time before Angel stands up. Lorne rises with him, Spike straightens. Lorne makes a move to support Gunn out. The four men leave without words.

* * *

><p>Angel is full of a rage almost blinding. He motions for Spike to follow him to his office and when they are both in, he closes the door with a bang. Spike almost jumps, thinking Angel is angry at him. He braces himself for the storm.<p>

"We're going to find these guys," Spike takes a step back at Angel's words.

"Hell yeah we are," his brow furrows as he speaks. "Are you really asking _me_ to help you?"

"Gunn won't be his best for a while and I'm not going to ask Lorne to kill," Spike nods as Angel speaks. "That being said, Lorne has already confirmed who hired the men. He felt something suspicious a few days ago."

"And you two didn't think to tell anyone?"

"We- I was distracted. I didn't think it would help."

"Alright then," Spike sighs. "What are we waiting for?"

It doesn't take long for the two of them to find the man. He is short and stalky behind the desk, seemingly the nerdy harmless type. Spike has to refrain from laughing. It's not hard to refrain when he thinks about why he is here, what this man is responsible for.

The two vampires loom over the man, still in his office chair. As he looks up he shrinks, because all he can see is two sets of fangs.

* * *

><p>Wesley sits with Fred, her hand in his own. He sings the song of some forgotten memory, something he can't place.<p>

_You can stop the train, just pull the brake..._

And everything is normal again. Everything is right. Without dreams there are no nightmares, and with Fred by his side, Wesley need not escape reality.

_ You can stop the train, yeah you can, you can. Just pull the brake..._


End file.
